


Petite Best Friend Gets His Perfect Holes Fucked Until He Squirts

by escspace, Queen_of_the_Ruckus



Series: Fun With Friends [2]
Category: Noblesse (Manhwa)
Genre: F/M, Fingering, M/M, Modern Ragar AU, Roleplay, Smut, Squirting, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22575583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escspace/pseuds/escspace, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queen_of_the_Ruckus/pseuds/Queen_of_the_Ruckus
Summary: Ragar gets himself a vagina, and Frankenstein fucks him.
Relationships: Frankenstein (Noblesse)/Ragar Kertia
Series: Fun With Friends [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624360
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	Petite Best Friend Gets His Perfect Holes Fucked Until He Squirts

“Oh! You look nice,” Takeo comments earnestly as he passes by Ragar in the hall. He smiles in his friendly, gentle way and nods before dipping into the bedroom, having snatched a cold can of Fanta from the fridge.

“Sweet, now we can start this movie!” Tao exclaims from inside before the door closes again.

Ragar emerges from the hall and into the common area feeling the fuzz of affection and a renewed confidence in the recent changes to his physical form. Inspired by glamorous magazine covers and sleek posters in store windows lining the tourist district, his black top is cropped above his midline, and he now wears snug black shorts, revealing his long, lithe legs that are embellished with the criss-cross of fishnet tights. His usual black leather jacket completes the look of the dangerous feminine, but his commitment to vanity extends to more than just what he wears over his body, as he has also made the appropriate changes beneath such clothes.

In the living room is Frankenstein, seated on the sofa and leisurely flipping through a newspaper. The low glass coffee table is bare except for a steaming cup of tea and Ragar’s previously misplaced Nintendo DS.

A court date had been set for the poor, innocent bastard unlucky enough to have been arrested for the mass-murder at the hospital all those months ago. Story continued on page 5. Frankenstein’s brow furrows mildly, wondering to what extent he should feel obligated to interfere on the man’s behalf. Disinterested, he turns the page, skimming the obituaries for any obvious red flags. An old man apparently died alone in his apartment some time prior and had been eaten by his own cats. Nothing of interest. He rubs at the corner of the coarse gray papers to separate the next pages.

Ragar crosses the living room in front of him, profile apparent in his field of vision above the paper. He doesn’t bother looking up, not sensing anything out of the ordinary. Distantly, he can pick up the beginnings of a movie starting in Tao’s room on the other side of the house. He flips to the next page, a minor political piece across from a continuation of the murder trial article.

Despite Ragar’s best efforts at being right in front of Frankenstein’s face, he is promptly and easily ignored. He tugs at his mask and then slowly, with emphasis, bends down to pick up his black Nintendo DS. He is equally slow in rising and tucking it into his pocket, his eyes trained on Frankenstein’s continually disinterested face. Mildly annoyed, though still wordless, Ragar exhales audibly.

He swallows a smirk upon hearing noise from the former Kertia clan leader, his desire for attention too obvious by far for an assassin. Not inclined to reward such noisy lingering with his attention, Frankenstein flicks the paper straighter and blinks at it in apparent boredom. Absently, he takes in the handful of misreported details from the murder, so horribly off-base from the actual events and evidence that he strongly suspects the journalist responsible of making most of it up.

Ragar, seeing that more drastic measures must be taken in the face of Frankenstein’s determined indifference, straightens fully. He eyes the single cup of tea, half empty. “Shall I go refill your cup, Frankenstein?” he tries.

“No, thank you. I’m not quite finished with this one.” Frankenstein’s eyes never leave his newspaper, his tone as disinterested as he is in its contents.

Ragar inhales deeply but refrains from sighing again. He turns fully to Frankenstein and quietly clears his throat. “Frankenstein,” he calls. “Would you perhaps care to enlighten me as to what interests you so greatly about that paper?”

Tiring of the game, he finally deigns to lower the newspaper, folding it neatly before setting it next to his tea. “The words printed on it, of course. Were you perhaps interested in reading them?” His expression shifts to one of mild amusement. “Or were you _subtly_ attempting to draw my attention to your new outfit?” His sharp eyes slip up and down Ragar’s tall frame in appraisal.

Caught a little flustered at having his motives directly picked apart, Ragar glances away and gives his mask a shy tug, but he is aware of and should be used to Frankenstein’s tendencies by now. His shoulders droop slightly, relaxing as he decides to drop any pretense. “…Your thoughts on my appearance?” he inquires demurely.

 _Oh._ Frankenstein’s eyes soften a bit at his friend’s earnest display, attention to personal appearance a subject with which he can empathize. “Turn around so I can see.” Carefully, he drinks in the sight of the high-end articles, finely-made and complementary to Ragar’s form. His eyes are drawn to the exposed contours of his stomach, then linger indulgently over the exact point at which his long legs disappear, the tight black shorts nicely accentuating his ass. His circle complete, Frankenstein gifts Ragar with a slight nod of approval, the corners of his lips tipped upwards. Familiar with the challenges of dressing in drag, he concludes with approval that his friend has done a particularly good job of it. “Are you planning on going somewhere in that?”

“Only if you would like to go somewhere,” Ragar says. He can feel his face slightly heat in blush at finally receiving his fair share of praise, even if only in the form of a silent nod. Brusquely, he takes the seat next to Frankenstein, folding his hands on his lap. “I have no other plans for the day,” he states, shifting a little closer, almost so that their shoulders touch.

The corner of Frankenstein’s mouth quirks up, blue eyes suddenly predatory at his companion’s open disposition. Closing the gap between them, he slowly trails a hand up Ragar’s thigh, savoring the catch of fishnets on his fingers and slipping them teasingly under the edge of those short shorts, breathing softly against his ear. He lingers there for a moment before removing his hand abruptly to trace a light line up the skin of his stomach and gently slip under the edge of his top, dragging harder as his movements slow. He watches with satisfaction as Ragar’s eyes slip shut in anticipation and enjoyment.

Then Frankenstein shoves his hand into the pocket of Ragar’s jacket, deftly retrieving the handheld gaming device that Ragar had stashed there earlier. Rising from the couch, he eyes it with mild disdain. “I see. Well, I don’t seem to have any plans for the evening either, and will be retiring early. I hope you don’t mind if I borrow this.” Without another word, he departs from the room.

Ragar blinks at suddenly being deserted. He glances, much like a clueless bird at crumbs on the street, at Frankenstein’s abandoned cup of tea. Dutifully, he takes the time to bring the cup to the sink to be washed later as he should not keep his friend waiting. Ragar knows, because he knows many things about humans now, that Frankenstein does not like sinking his time into activities as frivolous as the unreal, inconsequential world of electronic videogames and that seven o’clock pm is far too early a bedtime for even unenhanced humans—so early that Sir Raizel has not even returned yet from an outing with his friends. So, quickly, Ragar finds himself in front of Frankenstein’s bedroom door. It is unlocked when he turns the doorknob.

Rounding the corner to the hallway, Frankenstein smirks at catching his friend behaving so… Predictably. Truly it is endearing. Ragar stills at the quiet sounds of his footfalls, looking over at him like a startled deer, caught in the act of entering a room not his own. Never mind that Frankenstein himself had rushed to unlock the door for him prior to venturing to the entryway in search of the shoes he assumed would complete the outfit. From his hand dangles a pair of high black heels, simple with bold straps. Perfect. He swings them back and forth playfully, calling Ragar’s attention to them. “Oh my, Ragar. Was there something else you needed?” Their eyes meet and linger before Frankenstein boldly slips past him through the open door, passing close enough to feel the other’s heat.

Though he knows he is easily readable, and perhaps this makes him easy pickings for Frankenstein, Ragar is familiar enough with Frankenstein’s games to muster up some form of cool dignity to respond. “It appears that it is you who needs something from me, Frankenstein, as you have so brazenly plucked my own articles for yourself.” He lets out a quiet huff, pulling at his mask. He refrains from rolling his eyes, however, at his friend’s continued mischief as he enters the room as well. “Or am I to assume you are going to wear heels to bed at this so very late hour of seven in the evening?”

Smiling a touch indulgently, Frankenstein concedes. Truly his friend doesn’t deserve such teasing, especially considering how he has put in such obvious effort towards impressing him tonight. “You’re correct, of course. I _would_ like something from you.” He turns to face Ragar, stepping closer to trail a hand down the back of his jacket before pausing to grope roughly at his ass. “And while I sincerely appreciate your adherence to house rules, I believe the pink slippers somewhat ruin the aesthetic.” Pressing the heels to Ragar’s chest, he releases them and walks away, trusting in his companion’s reflexes. He crosses the room to sit expectantly on the edge of his bed, waiting.

Ragar looks at the heels in his hands, turning them so that they catch the light before bending down to slip them on in place of the slippers that Frankenstein had chosen to be the house uniform. The twelve centimeter heels extend his willowy form straight to the ceiling. Nonetheless, he saunters with ease, footfalls as light, delicate, and silent as shadows, and shamelessly straddles Frankenstein’s lap. He presses his weight onto him. “I trust that you enjoy what you see now,” he says, almost commanding, head held high, vastly prideful—like he truly is the esteemed, noble clan leader he is supposed to be, utterly sure in his power and presentation.

A shiver runs down his spine, warm want pooling in his stomach. Face slightly flushed, Frankenstein’s breath catches in his chest at the display. He shifts eagerly against the weight across his thighs, drinking in the impressively dominant figure his friend cuts before him.

Then abruptly he stills, his gaze shifting to the side to linger on one of the blonde locks framing Ragar’s face. His expression hardening slightly, he twists it between long fingers and gives a gentle tug. Seeing his slight give, Frankenstein’s hold tightens and he yanks almost cruelly, drawing his willowy frame down to bite at Ragar’s neck through the black cloth of his mask and holding him there for a long moment without relenting.

Ragar gasps softly as his head jerks downwards from the sudden, stinging force. He closes his eyes and nibbles at his bottom lip, hidden by the mask, when he feels Frankenstein’s possessive teeth on him, no stranger to being rough with Ragar and a clear claim to dominance.

Thrill makes his chest flutter and his heart race. Ragar sighs against him. “I will take that as a ‘yes,’ then,” he all but purrs against Frankenstein’s ear, sliding his hands smoothly from Frankenstein’s shoulders down the front of his neat black blazer and undoing its buttons.

Frankenstein leans back to accommodate Ragar while better taking in the view, one hand propping himself up while the other teases his companion through his clothes. He pinches at small, perky nipples, then roughly drags his nails down the smooth contours of his exposed stomach, watching the red lines fade away into nothing. Making his way down to those sinfully short shorts, he gropes playfully between Ragar’s legs-

And stiffens, blinking rapidly in surprise, his eyebrows furrowing severely in concern. His hand explores his partner more thoroughly, now more clinical than teasing. “What…the hell? Ragar, where is it!?”

Ragar’s blush and pleasant, wanting ache in between his legs are abruptly interrupted by Frankenstein’s sudden and vast concerned confusion. Ragar, too, is confused. “Where is…what?” he asks. He wants to pull apart Frankenstein’s jacket and grind against the press of that hand, but his friend’s genuine distress stills him. Dimly, slowly, it dawns on Ragar what is missing. “Ah…my cock is gone,” he says flatly, as if it is an everyday occurrence, like it has only gone on a short weekend vacation and will return some time later. “I had thought that a more streamlined, feminine form would be a welcome change of pace,” he elaborates. “I have seen those movies of adult entertainment and would like to experience this physical form for myself.”

Frankenstein’s expression falls flat, his mouth slightly open. Not quite disbelief, but something closer to a visualization of the words ‘of course you would’ is written plainly across his face. He slumps slightly in exasperation, but leaves his hand where it is, not wanting to needlessly spurn his friend for wanting something new.

“Ragar… You know I’m gay, right? I… I mean…” He takes a deep breath, gathering his composure as he exhales. Sweeping his companion over with fresh eyes, seeking out any other obvious changes, he catches Ragar’s expression beginning to fall. His face still flushed, but his growing self-consciousness is plain in the way he tugs vainly at his mask. The situation is endearing, even if not entirely to his tastes. And he knows full well the liberties his friend has permitted him through the ages. He is not above returning favors. Enjoys it, in fact.

His eyes sharpen once more, his mouth twisting with a mixture of exasperation and cruel intentions. “Just… Warn me next time you decide to change your sex. It’s been a while. But for now, let’s get this out of your system, shall we?”

Ragar perks up as he quickly dispels his nervousness at possibly repulsing his friend with the sudden changes. He looks at Frankenstein, eagerness renewed, and nods earnestly.

With the logistics settled, Frankenstein avails himself to Ragar’s reactions anew, paying closer attention to ensure that he’s pleasuring him properly as he resumes exploration. Starting off a touch more gently, uncertain of his partner’s new preferences, he slips his fingers under Ragar’s shorts, savoring the feel of fishnets and silk. He presses into the unfamiliar heat, rotating his pressure and feeling him out. His other arm snakes around roughly to pull his friend down into a kiss, vicious and heated enough to hopefully erase any awkwardness from the moment.

Ragar lets himself moan approvingly, though barely audible, into the kiss as he loosely wraps his arms around Frankenstein’s shoulders. He grinds into Frankenstein’s hand as he familiarizes himself with his own new anatomy. Pleasure is blunt and climbs leisurely—-a departure from Frankenstein’s usual pace. The lips between Ragar’s thighs readily slick themselves to welcome his friend as he feels a warm, dull desire curl low in his abdomen, making him crush Frankenstein closer still to him. Ragar swallows down the kiss and sighs against his ear. “I do not recall you being the careful type in these activities, Frankenstein,” he comments blithely, teasing. “Am I that…affecting?”

“Mmm…” Amusement rumbles through Frankenstein’s chest as he begins to rub in slow, deliberate circles over Ragar’s undoubtedly interesting lingerie. He sucks deeply at the lobe of his ear before whispering to him with soft, warm breath. “I will torment you _maddeningly_ until you cry out to be fucked, Ragar. In a manner _quite_ unbefitting of a Kertia.” He twists cruelly at a nipple through the fine fabric of his top. “I will have you dripping with wet and want until you absolutely cannot stand it any longer.”

Ragar shivers, biting back an indulgent whimper, because he, too, is not averted from such games. He swallows in anticipation, his breath becoming short and surely blushing furiously as he gently rocks his hips and savors the sting of Frankenstein’s fingers. Something turns under his eyes—the gears of his mind working through endless permutations of what he can say. Perhaps foolishly, he decides to whisper back, “Perhaps it will be an entertaining effort from you, Frankenstein.”

He grins back evilly in response. “Perhaps.”

Without further warning Frankenstein’s hand shifts to Ragar’s waist. He lifts him easily, pressing firmly between his legs before tumbling him across the bed, heels dangling off the edge. With great vanity and ease, he shrugs out of his shirt and jacket in one movement, draping them carefully across a nearby chair before sauntering back to loom over Ragar. One leg bent enticingly, the other pointed all the way to the black patent-leather toe of his stiletto, like an artfully arranged photograph. For a moment, he envisions painted crimson lips to complete the picture.

He slides up easily on hands and knees, slipping over the prone body beneath him to press a knee between slim, toned legs. Sculpted arms frame his friend, one hand tangling in blonde locks while the other traces a the curve of Ragar’s angular face. He fingers the edge of that infuriating mask before kissing him through fabric, each lingering bite separated with the press of lips and tongue, never quite meeting. Ragar’s mask is soon reduced to a clinging wet mess.

Ragar breathes him in and swallows him down, closing his eyes. He can feel the dampness in the mask spread across his lips and chin and become chilled once it meets the air. Wantonly, he slides his hips to chase friction against Frankenstein’s leg, dragging broadly against his—as he has heard it called—pussy. His hands, delicate, fluttering, ghost over Frankenstein’s muscled yet still lithe body, leaving butterfly touches on his skin.

Frankenstein’s eyes slip briefly shut, his skin cold and hypersensitive in the wake of Ragar’s fingers. He bites down harshly at his throat, stopping just shy of the taboo act of breaking skin.

Roughly he searches Ragar’s shorts for the zipper, flicking the eyelet before bringing it down. His hand slips inside, touch light and teasing, deft fingers pulling down hose and shorts and panties all at once while running sharp nails down the pale skin of his hip. Lowering himself, he licks along his stomach before touching fingers to the considerable wet waiting for him. “Hmm. Ragar, it appears there is something that you want.”

Frankenstein sits back up on his knees, watching carefully as he runs his fingers between wet lips, then plunging them deeply inside. He smirks as Ragar squirms in pleasure, clinging mask making visible his wordlessly open mouth. He twists and scissors his fingers ruthlessly, searching him out.

Ragar nods and lets out a rushed, shaking breath. He can feel, see, and hear Frankenstein’s fingers move within him so easily with how wet he is. The line of saliva on his stomach quickly becomes cold, and Ragar’s hips lift eagerly towards Frankenstein, loving and yet craving something more filling than just a couple fingers. It is a slightly novel feeling compared to their usual affair—-his nerves and pleasurable spots deconstructed and remapped. The slide and press of Frankenstein’s fingers makes something coil and ache deep in his lower belly. His body can only lewdly slip even more slick fluid against Frankenstein’s hand. “I want you… That is obvious,” Ragar says, short of breath, spreading his thighs further apart. Despite his cock’s disappearance, he can feel the quaint button of his newfangled clitoris harden and twitch with a familiar want.

“Yes,” Frankenstein agrees causally. He shifts his hand to spread wet across Ragar’s clit liberally, circling and rubbing and enjoying his friend’s reaction while continuing the relentless attack with his other fingers. He traces his other hand fleetingly across the buckle of his own still-fastened belt before using it to brush his lightly disheveled hair back dramatically instead. “But I still haven’t heard you beg.” His tone is infuriatingly haughty as he presses himself against Ragar’s thigh, crudely grinding his cock against him through the fabric of slacks and bunched fishnets.

Ragar twitches at being worked so intensely. A groan presses against his throat but leaves as only a strained huff. He tilts his head back against the now wrinkled sheets. Every slippery swipe over his clit sends a dull jolt up his spine, and the continuous drag and stretch of Frankenstein’s fingers has his mind scrambling to process the new pleasure overwhelming his new body. He can feel his inner walls trying to squeeze around him.

Ragar swallows and clears the moan from his throat. “Please put your cock in my...” He blinks, not quite sure which of the many words and euphemisms are appropriate for the situation. “…my vagina.”

Frankenstein huffs in amusement, caught off guard but unsurprised by Ragar’s tame phrasing. He gazes down at his struggling friend with apparent mild disdain as he unbuckles his belt, taking himself in hand and stroking at his cock so it drips. With a wet squelch he withdraws his fingers, keeping one attentively at Ragar’s clit. Lowering himself so the head of his cock presses lightly against the wet of Ragar’s lips, Frankenstein brings his face in close, breath hot against Ragar’s mask. “Care to try that again?”

Ragar blushes for his naivety at seeing that he has clearly chosen the incorrect phrasing, but perhaps it is only Frankenstein and his usual coyishness that denies Ragar what he wants. His hips buck up against that cock and his clit aches at such a teasing finger. He feels his belly clench and then relax and clench again, as if his body can will Frankenstein to, “Fuck my pussy with your cock.” He sighs long and low and lifts his head slightly, bringing their faces closer. “Please...” he adds as he wonders if his blush is any brighter, but Ragar's embarrassment does not deter him from gratifying vulgarity if that is what his friend seeks. Ragar’s thighs tense as he squirms slightly at the leisurely but relentless attention to his clit, its hardness rivaling that of any cock. He feels, at the moment, entirely under Frankenstein’s control and at his mercy.

Frankenstein hums deep and low in his chest, want and appreciation vibrating through him, his eyes half-lidded under the spell of unrestrained speech and closeness and his own boiling blood. Pulse suddenly hammering and breath short, he shifts his gaze from such hazy, expectant eyes down to Ragar’s crimson flush, unwilling to admit the draw his friend holds over him in this moment. Instead, he sinks inside obligingly, but only the first inch or so, holding himself back with a wicked smirk to watch as Ragar’s eyes flash, expression wide and frantic at the denial. He pulls back tauntingly from lithe hips now squirming and thrusting in greedy attempts to take him inside.

With Ragar’s attention now fully in his grasp, red eyes wide and begging in unguarded earnest, he thrusts in smoothly, burying himself fully in soft heat. Frankenstein shivers with primal pleasure as Ragar’s body shifts tightly around him, his balls resting pleasantly against Ragar, his senses drifting slightly from the harsh borders of his own control.

Ragar takes in a gasping, deep breath as Frankenstein fills him luxuriously. His eyes narrow in haziness. He clenches around Frankenstein’s cock and reaches up and around to harshly drag his nails across Frankenstein’s back, sharpening the air around them just enough with his noble powers to return the favor and cut red lines into his skin.

Loving the warmth and stretch of cock, confusion nonetheless flickers across Ragar’s face at Frankenstein taking so long to start moving within him and grant them both sweet friction. He presses more so against Frankenstein’s hips, a deep purr in his chest. Ragar can feel his vagina pulse all the way up to his stomach.

Frankenstein groans unabashedly at the sharp lines of fire running across his skin, grinding thoughtlessly into Ragar as he bites down on his own lip. Long lashes fluttering, he stills again, now eyeing his friend in apparent mischief.

Abruptly, Frankenstein shifts Ragar, twisting him so his hips rest on one side. Adjusting himself accordingly, he hammers Ragar with ruthless abandon, aiming for the place he found while fingering him. He slips his still-slick fingers into Ragar’s unprepared ass, massaging his own cock through walls of hot, eager flesh.

Ragar eyes snap wide open and his breath catches. A weak moan weasels its way out of him then another, unbidden. He bites down on his mask, pressing his lips tightly together as he shudders. Ragar is completely taken by sensations, burning, thrumming, and so very good, the feeling of having two holes fucked in this way utterly new to him, and he quickly takes a liking to it. Helplessly and within Frankenstein’s grasp, he ruts back against him even as he is pressed for air. The way Frankenstein’s fingers press his walls against such a ruthless cock makes him shake, and his hands reach for something to clutch, whether that be his partner’s shoulder or the crumpled sheets.

“Oh…” he lets slip, lowering his head in submission. He is impossibly wet, and Frankenstein easily and messily slips in and out of him, like Ragar is made just for him to fuck.

Affectionately, there is some truth to that.

Frankenstein’s wolfish grin betrays a hunger for more of Ragar’s soft sounds, ruthless and scenting blood. Convulsions wrack the heat around him, squeezing and pulling him tighter. Fighting off his own release in the face of such an impressive onslaught, he quickens the pace, working the trembling, grasping noble furiously, chipping away at what control he still retains.

Ragar squeezes his eyes shut and gulps air like water in the desert. Curling into himself, he suddenly slaps a hand tightly over his mouth, biting off a high pitched whimper. He feels his coiling pleasure violently burst, shaking him and tensing his entire body. Ragar does not quite know how to process the surges rolling deeply through his anatomy and making him forget that anything else exists. For a moment, all that he is aware of is a hot, agonized gush in between his legs as his pussy convulses in waves again and again. Wetness sprays over Frankenstein’s merciless, thrusting cock and the sheets beneath them, and Ragar is helpless to stop it even as his face burns. His expression twists in great effort to remain at least somewhat quiet.

A strangled cry escapes from Frankenstein’s unknowingly parted lips as Ragar writhes around him, brought nearly to the edge himself. He slows to a carefully deliberate pace, riding out his friend’s frenzied climax and marveling in indulgent amusement at the sheer amount of liquid spattering them both and dramatically patterning his sheets. The flush burned across Ragar’s face remains even as his convulsing tremors cease, his chest heaving furiously with an apparent lack of oxygen. Perfectly disheveled and gulping like a fish, his desperate show of retaining some piece of his former composure an obvious farce. “My, my, Ragar. What’s this? It’s hardly been five minutes and you’re already squirting like a pro. Does it truly feel so good to be fucked?”

Without waiting for an answer, Frankenstein shifts Ragar once again, withdrawing that wicked hand to guide his ankles, resting them against broad shoulders. Severe stilettos dangle dangerously, tangling with the golden waves of Frankenstein’s hair. Cupping Ragar’s firm ass in his hands, Frankenstein raises his partner’s now-relaxed hips to more easily drive at anatomical triggers. Dragging himself shallowly, deliberately, he drives fresh waves of hot, clear ejaculate, mercilessly showering Ragar in his own wet heat. He surveys his companion with a vain air of haughty entitlement, enjoying the expression of helpless shock as Ragar’s own rhythmic spurting dapples the drying fabric of his mask. His hands clutch desperately and violently at nothing, repeated attempts at regaining some semblance of grounding or control.

The defenseless, begging look in Ragar’s eyes can be read as _oh my Lord, oh “Frankenstein…”_ Undignified. He tilts his head back, concentrating on finding a second of rest, of blissful numbness post climax, that Frankenstein vehemently denies him with his ceaseless driving. “Frankenstein…” Ragar rasps again with voice raw and pathetic. He reaches towards his blushing pink pussy, oversensitive and overwhelmed. His fingers curl delicately over his sex, clutching futilely, as if he can shield it, tuck himself away for just a second, but Frankenstein remains inside of him and against him, and Ragar feels himself lazily gush into his own hand. Each slide of Frankenstein’s miraculous cock scorches him hotter than the last even as the air quickly cools the wetness soaking his once new, flawless clothing.

At the hoarse slip of his name, Frankenstein’s hands move up to grasp tightly at Ragar’s ankles. Holding him in place with a merciless cruelty, Ragar’s body not yet recovered enough to put up any sort of a fight, he shifts their angle to drive the full length of his cock into Ragar’s trembling body. Frankenstein repeatedly buries himself deep in those wet, welcoming walls, lewd sounds fueling his frenzied pace. His tempo is swift, his stomach clenching and shuddering under waves of heated pleasure as he earnestly chases his own friction. Chills run down his spine at the sight of Ragar’s frantic, broken movements, his own face burning heartedly in appreciation for his ruined and ravaged appearance. Brutally, he shudders and grinds into him one last time, crying out as his back arches in shuddering, uncontrolled release.

 _“Mmmn!”_ Frankenstein’s unyielding handling of Ragar’s already keen body quickly spurs another orgasm, so mercilessly soon from the last, though Ragar can hardly tell when one ends and another begins in his heated daze. Frankenstein’s liberal release splatters and soaks his insides, wet into wet, and as Ragar hopelessly cums again alongside him, his self control dissolves enough for him to cry out, abandoned, his entire body seeming to clench and sing and shudder as a soppy, cloudy mix of Frankenstein’s cum and Ragar’s fluids pours out of his pussy, trailing down his skin and spilling onto the sheets. He clutches Frankenstein desperately to him.

Unbeknownst to both of them, in a room down the hall, M-21 sheepishly clears his throat into his fist. “Hey…you wanna…turn the volume up a bit?”

Tao chuckles nervously and so does Takeo.

“Haha…uh, yeah—sure—of course—good idea…” Tao reaches forward for his laptop and increases the movie’s volume by several levels.

Back in the room, Frankenstein sighs deeply as he lounges easily on the bed next to Ragar’s spent form. Eyeing his friend with an unhurried curiosity, Frankenstein reaches out with a finger to collect a drop of liquid from his bare stomach, tipping it casually into his own mouth. “It’s sweet,” he declares in mild amusement, before banishing the mess from his once-pristine bed.

Ragar carefully turns until he is lying on his stomach to bury his face into a pillow and huffs into it slowly as he gradually begins to regain himself, though he continues to feel slightly shaky. His thighs are still slick, and remnant cum and ejaculate slip out of him.

Frankenstein eyes his friend warmly, laying a firm hand on his shoulder in the hopes of grounding him. They wait in silence as the moments drift by, Frankenstein observing Ragar carefully as he returns to himself, not quite certain of what he should say about their play. Not quite certain of how he would feel if it turned out that his friend preferred the anatomy of a different gender. Frankenstein isn’t the type to do a poor job of anything, and that extends to his bedroom activities. It had never even crossed his mind to influence his friend by showing him a disappointing time.

“Oh!” Abruptly, something occurs to him. He crosses the room to retrieve something from his jacket, returning to occupy roughly the same spot. He taps Ragar’s sleeve lightly with the side of his black Nintendo DS, holding it out to him.

Ragar eyes widen slightly in bubbly surprise, only now remembering anything that occured before they had stepped into the bedroom. He accepts the device gracefully if not coyly, and though his mask hides a gentle smile, it is evident enough in his eyes. Lying more comfortably in the bed, Ragar casually flicks the device on, propping himself up on his elbows with the pillow under his chest and chin. The screens cast a dull blue on his face and in the reflections in his eyes.

Frankenstein leans back against the headboard, reservedly satisfied but still considering. He had enjoyed himself well enough, especially when he’d focused on Ragar’s reactions. But it wasn’t quite the same, and he’d missed having something more substantial to work in his hands. Even the well-studied places inside of him had shifted, though he considered himself to be more than up to the challenge of mapping them.

Absently, he scans his friend’s body again, seeking out changes. His tits hadn’t seemed any larger, although he hadn’t expressly examined them outside of the obscuring confines of his clothing. The physician in him rears its eager head at the thought of conducting a more thorough examination. To what extent could Nobles shift? Was it possible for them to manifest aspects from both genders? To what extent could those parts function?

“…Fuck.” Frankenstein utters the word with a flat vehemence, his stomach suddenly fluttering and queasy with deep concern, Dark Spear sparking and flaring along with the cold trill of fear. “Hey, you aren’t going to get pregnant, are you?”

Ragar turns his gaze from his Animal Crossing fishing attempt and sharply towards Frankenstein. His eyes almost sparkle and a naive excitement lifts his expression. “Would you like heirs? I am capable of creating child, Frankenstein.”

He stiffens at the causal proposal, a dry lump rising in his throat. Memories of a long-buried golden-haired boy come to him unbidden, provided to him so very courteously by his darling Lover. He swallows his nausea back at the thought. It was a difficult enough task protecting his Master from the Union. And his household and staff. And the students at his school… To bring in another entity to be subjected to their ruthless targeting? “No,” he barks a bit roughly. “No… Thanks for offering.” He composes himself to follow the statement with a tight smile.

“Oh.” Ragar’s expression falls and he turns back to the game, the shark having made a swift escape during his distraction. “Then I will not get ‘pregnant,’” he informs him, a touch distant and sterile in sharp contrast to their previous heated passions.

His expression shifts. Frankenstein frowns down at his friend, uncertain of how to proceed. Of how he could begin to explain himself. He swallows a sigh, holding back the impulse to rest a hand on him. What right does he have to any of this?

After many long minutes pass in unease, Frankenstein gets up from the bed, his chest still bare though his pants have already been tidily fixed. He slips from the room, returning from the private bathroom with a soft cloth damp with fresh, warm water. He lays a hand on Ragar’s back to warn him of his intent before gently clearing away the cum between his thighs. He follows this up with a quick press of his lips to Ragar’s leg before gently replacing the hose and shorts.

Frankenstein climbs back into bed, reaching out to tentatively lay a hand on Ragar’s hair, noting with apprehension how his friend hasn’t spared any of his attention from the game.

“I am too afraid for something like that, Ragar. I am hunted and haunted. Please understand.”

He saves his game and shuts the device off, folding it under him. Ragar sighs away their tension, laying his head back down on the pillow. “Frankenstein, I have known you and have been your companion for far too long to not understand that.” He closes his eyes and calmly enjoys Frankenstein’s touch. Giving his mask a tug, Ragar assures him, “You have not upset me, Frankenstein. I have no regrets when it comes to my life with you.”

Frankenstein’s eyes slip shut in relief, tension abruptly dispelled. Tousling absently at the carefully captured hair, he adjusts himself to lay back as well, uncommonly spent considering that he can still distinctly make out the quippy one-liners and explosions of the movie playing down the hall.

He scrambles around in his head for a moment, seeking something fitting and appropriate to say to his friend. Something to convey his sincere appreciation. Instead, it occurs to him to give the compliment he’d withheld earlier. “Ragar.” He pauses, waiting for his friend’s eyes to find his own. “…You looked nice in that outfit.” He looks away, corners of his mouth quirking up in a wry smile. “...Before you squirted all over it.”

Ragar huffs, relaxing back onto the soft embrace of the pillow around his lightly coloring face. He accepts the compliment with quiet, playful indignation. Vaguely, Ragar wonders how he might return tonight’s favor as he feels a conscious shift in his body, reforming, reshaping. He lifts himself elegantly, grandly and kneels before Frankenstein, gazing down with sharp, assessing eyes. Slipping his fingers in between his thighs, he proudly outlines the considerable shape of his cock pressing against his neatened shorts. “Perhaps it is about time I should show you my _immense gratitude_ , Frankenstein,” he says.

Frankenstein smirks, pointed. “My, my, how generous of you, Ragar…”


End file.
